


Dust

by Noa



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Cute, M/M, Sand?, boyfriends in the making, i really don't know how to tag this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-13
Updated: 2015-04-13
Packaged: 2018-03-22 18:25:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3738835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Noa/pseuds/Noa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What a talent to have, Gerome thought, to have sand so infatuated with you that it clings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust

Inigo’s always got sand on his face.

Gerome has long since stopped trying to find an explanation for it. It’s just there, much like himself, misplaced in the past. It doesn’t _look_ misplaced, though. The sand had become a part of Inigo by now, dusting his features with fragments of stars- maybe that’s where his inexplicable glow came from, those sparkles that made Gerome feel like Inigo summoned meteor showers with every strike of his blade. (His mother shone in the same way, although Gerome never found his eyes drawn to her like they were to her son.)

Kind of amazing, how the sand never seemed to get in his way. At first, Gerome almost felt obliged to wipe the grains off Inigo’s cheekbones whenever he saw them reflecting the light. He never did, of course. Gerome would just grit his teeth to help suppress the urge, trying not to think of how awful it would feel to have sand underneath his mask. Sometimes, he’d clear his throat, and politely point it out to Inigo that he’s got something on his shoulder, his neck, his jaw—Inigo would blink, absently brush at his skin, and toss Gerome a smile before moving on. And even though Gerome could _see_ the sand fall from his fingertips, the next time he’d look at Inigo, it’d be there again, like it’s never been touched at all.

Inigo’s perpetually dusted features soon became Gerome’s biggest mystery. He bathed, knowledge Gerome had if only for the delicate scent of musk and lilies whenever Inigo moved past him, so it couldn’t be a result of neglected hygiene. And while Minerva would take sand baths here and there, Gerome was pretty sure that was an activity reserved to non-humans (the image of Inigo rolling around in a heap of sand was entertaining, though).

What a talent to have, Gerome thought, to have sand so infatuated with you that it clings. Maybe it was his skin. Then again, if anyone in their troops had flawless skin, it was Inigo. Fairer than Maribelle, though Gerome hadn’t spent enough time studying her face to make a proper comparison. He assumed to be right, regardless. But if that wasn’t the cause, what explanations were left? Sand didn’t just materialize, and it didn’t have replenishing qualities either. It kept Gerome up at night, wondering if he’d even feel the dust should he touch Inigo’s skin. Or his hair, and if he’d end up with a mouthful of sand should he-

Gerome squeezed his eyes shut, swearing to himself that he wouldn’t lose sleep over something this ridiculous (even though he already had). When the next day he was reminded of his turn to gather wood, and noticed Inigo stood outside waiting for him, Gerome was certain he’d angered a God or two.

It’s quiet. A rare trait for forest areas around these parts, but a welcome one nonetheless. Of course, no place can ever be quiet when Inigo is there as well.

“What’s up with you lately.” Inigo asks. Gerome needs a second to process his words, because he was listening to the sound of his voice instead.

“What do you mean.” He answers.

Inigo sets down the stack of wood they’d gathered thus far. It clatters to the ground in a cloud of dust.

“You’ve been staring at me.” Inigo says.

“What?” Gerome starts, quickly correcting himself. “No I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have.” Inigo says. He crosses his arms in front of his chest, and tilts his head. His inspecting gaze makes Gerome feel strangely embarrassed, so he averts his eyes.

“I mean, I don’t mind the staring.” Inigo continues, displaying trademark confidence that Gerome finds reassuring somehow. “But you’ve been ogling like I’ve got my shirt on backwards.”

Gerome gives Inigo a puzzled look.

“Your shirt isn’t on backwards.” He then says slowly.

Inigo blinks, seemingly taken aback by the sincerity in Gerome’s voice, until he sees the look on Gerome’s face and realizes that the metaphor went past him completely.

“That’s not,” Inigo begins, sighing. “Forget about the shirt. I just want to know why you’ve been staring, because something tells me it’s not my devilishly handsome looks.”

“No. I mean, not that you’re not, I mean,” Gerome feel his cheeks heat up. This was going all sorts of wrong (and whether a blessing or a curse, Inigo waits patiently throughout Gerome’s fumbling, hands at his sides and his weight on one hip). Gerome breathes in, smelling lilies and sand.

“You’ve got sand on your face.” Gerome finally says, bringing it with a formality that makes it sound like he’s giving Inigo terrible news. Inigo frowns, and Gerome can’t blame him. He waits for Inigo to start laughing.

“That’s it? Where?” Inigo says, already batting at his face.

“No,” Gerome finds himself reaching forward, stilling his hand inches from Inigo’s skin as if he only just realized what he was doing. Inigo’s eyes flit from Gerome’s face, to his fingers, and then back to his face.

“I won’t bite, y’know.” There’s a joking edge to Inigo’s voice, and Gerome hates it. It makes him feel like Inigo is not taking him seriously, like he’s making mockery of him—Yet at the same time, seeing that playful sparkle in Inigo’s eyes kindles a strange warmth inside Gerome’s chest. It’s an absolutely dreadful experience. “You handle a wyvern like it’s a cuddly bunny, yet you’re afraid of touching me?”

“Minerva is not any wyvern.” Gerome says, lowering his hand. He must have sounded angrier than he intended, because Inigo instantly raises his hands in defense.

“Whoa, sorry, didn’t mean to offend you.” He says quickly. “Or Minerva. Quit the death glare please, I’m much too sensitive of a man to handle that kind of heat.”

But Gerome keeps looking, and instead of noticing how Inigo seems to grow more nervous with each passing second, his focus lies with the sand accentuating the sharp line of his jaw. Inigo brushes his hands over his face again, missing the spot completely for a second time. Gerome frowns behind his mask, his fingers twitching in irritation. This man was impossible.

“Hey, whoa-” Inigo’s protests cut off when Gerome reaches out, and swipes his thumb along his jaw. The sand instantly gets taken by the wind, and Gerome breathes out as if he’d just been relieved of a great burden. The Gods know how long he’s been wanting to do that.

“..Did you get it?” Inigo asks, an uncharacteristic insecurity in his voice. Funny, how Inigo jokes about Gerome being scared to touch him, when _he_ seems to be the one undone.

 “Yes.” Gerome answers, though he knew this satisfaction wouldn’t last long. He’d only have to blink, look away for a few seconds, and there’d be sand again.

“Thanks.” Inigo says, running a hand through his hair, and Gerome watches closely, but no sand yet. “Your hands are softer than I thought they’d be.”

Gerome blinks, unsure of how to interpret that comment. Was it good? Bad? Did Inigo think about his hands?

“Oh.” He ends up saying. Inigo chuckles, striking up that same liquid warmth behind Gerome’s ribs. Then, he turns back to the ignored pile of firewood.

“We should get this back to camp.” Inigo says, and Gerome nods.

They’re quiet as they recollect the logs, and by the time Gerome has picked up his axe again, Inigo can barely see the path before him from behind the tall stack of wood in his arms. Gerome trails after him, picking up any stray branch he drops.

“And again, you’re cleaning up after me.” Inigo says with a sigh of resignation.

“It’s fine.” Gerome says, frowning when Inigo attempts to look at him from over his shoulder. “Keep your eyes on the road. You’ll trip.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got great footing.” Inigo says with a grin, that lovely stupid grin, and Gerome suppresses the urge to agree.

“You’re going to be absolutely drenched in dust by the time we arrive.” Gerome comments.

“Well then,” Inigo starts. “I suppose you’ll just have to help me get it off again later.”

And Gerome nearly trips over the next twig that falls off the pile.

(But he wasn’t quite ready to get a mouthful of sand just yet.)


End file.
